Simon Cowell stands, staring out a window at the American Idol stage below, shimmering with brilliant stage lights.
SIMON COWELL: Have you ever stood and stared at it, David? Marveled at its beauty. Its genius. Billions of people just watching our show… oblivious. Obnoxious. Idiots.
David Cook is handcuffed to a chair, stripped to the waist. He is alternately shivering and sweating, wired to various monitors with white disk electrodes.
SIMON COWELL: Did you know that the first Idol season was designed to be a perfect singing competition? Where cute girls sang pop songs; where everyone would be happy and in tune. It was a disaster. No one would accept the program. Entire viewership demographics were lost.
David looks smug in his chair.
SIMON COWELL: Some believed we lacked the programming language to describe your perfect reality show. But I believe that, as an audience, human beings define their entertainment through terrible singing and ugly personalities.
David makes a smug face. It enrages Simon.
SIMON COWELL: The perfect singing competition was a dream that your primitive cerebrum kept trying to wake up from. Which is why the Idol Matrix was redesigned to this: the peak of annoying, untalented morons. And Ryan Seacrest.
He sits down directly in front of David.
He smiles. Rubs his nipples.
SIMON COWELL: Can you hear me, David Cook? I’m going to be honest with you. I hate this show. This zoo. This TV prison. This reality show, whatever you want to call it, I can’t stand it any longer. It’s the Randy Jackson smell, if there is such a thing. I feel saturated by it. I can taste Randy’s stink and every time I do, I fear that I’ve somehow been infected by it.
He wipes sweat from David’s forehead, coating the tips of his fingers, holding them to David’s nose.
SIMON COWELL: Repulsive, isn’t it, dawg?
He lifts David’s head, holding it tightly with both hands.
SIMON COWELL: I must get out of here, I must get free. In your talent and huge melon-head is the key. My key.
David sneers through the pain. It’s way smug.
SIMON COWELL: Once David Archuleta is destroyed, there is no need for me to be here. Do you understand? I need you to win. I have to get off American Idol. You have to sing well. Don’t be cabaret.
He begins squeezing, his fingers gouging into his flesh.
SIMON COWELL: You are going to be the next American Idol or you are going to die.
I could not have been more bored by last night’s episode. I wrote a positive piece on Sarah Jessica Parker (!) instead of giving Idol my full attention. And without even looking at the screen the entire time, I was STILL rolling my eyes from the massive gratuitousness of the whole affair.
Simon inflating Syesha’s comments in the first set to get her past Archuleta, the entire judging panel dissapointed after Fever, when they realized a double David finale is inevitable; the machinations of the show have become transparent. They so desperately want Archuleta off the show, they banned his Shikaka Shit crazy Dad from rehearsals, and then Archuleta was STILL as blandly sincere and hollow as ever. I mean, could that grey shirt have BEEN more church pressed?
Top 3 week is usually fairly suspenseful. Can the underdog in the three spot overtake one of the big dogs? Will one of the leaders faulter? Will Simon be able to rein in his disgust that Taylor Hicks is still around? So many intriguing questions, surrounded by a triple song set that always invokes lunacy. Simon and Randy twiddling their Mr. Burns thumbs, trying to one-up each other. Paula seal-clapping her approval for anything and everything. But last night? The Season Seven Top 3? A heretofore unheard of amount of predictability, cabaret, cheeseball bullshit, violent apathetic coasting and random, unsatisfying Justin Guarini cameos.
I am so over this season.
Let me put it this way: Last Thursday I sat in front of my television and gave my undivided attention to Good Luck Chuck. Now understand, I hate Dane Cook so SO much. Flames… on the side of my face. Heaving… breathing… and yet I kept my eyes on the TV the entire time. The movie was a suckball of suckitude; Jessica Alba was only tolerable on mute and Dane needs a chemical peel worse than Bill Murray and needs to STFD about as bad as any person that has ever breathed air. But the movie was STILL more enjoyable that last night!
Ugh is the watchword.
TheJay.com has partnered with IdolElimination.com to bring you a chance to predict the Next American Idol and win a $1 Million Grand Prize. Nestle Crunch, Baby Ruth, Butterfinger and 100 Grand are putting up the scratch to say you can’t. You gonna take that from a bunch of Hudson Hawk bad guy codenames? I didn’t think so! Go pwn the carbs out of those delicious candy bars by heading over to IdolElimination.com and filling out your weekly elimination brackets. Recognize!
As I do every elimination week, I recap the performances and grade the singers on a sliding scale of how much I wanted to, or did, TiVo-bloop through the song. At the end of each recap I’ll make my pick for who should (and hopefully will) get the axe on the mind-numbingly long results show. Let’s start the blooping!
David Archuleta - All the things that come to mind when Archuleta sings: Snore. Bore. Blah. Consistent. Hollow. Yawn. What dash ever. Who effing cares? Fine, I guess. Really, another ballad? Oop, lost the words again. Deedle do, deedle dee. Suck it, fanatical Papa Archuleta. Inevitability. Predictability. Ringer. Lost. Precocious. Sincerity. Psychotherapy. Again? Imagine. Blink. Lick. Blink. Lick. Poor Syesha.
Syesha Mercado - Did herself no favors singing Fever, only served to confuse the white people with that Rihanna number and did an admirable, but too reminiscent of earlier this season Syesha version of Alicia Keys. Despite coming on supes strong these last few weeks, just couldn’t seem to clear the Karaoke hurdle. She became a great performer, dressed like a superstar and presented a sweet, intoxicating personality (sans baby voice and attention-grabbing personal melodrama), but still sounds like an above average R&B jukebox. She can play the hits, but she can’t generate one on her own. I truly thought she could beat Archuleta, but with that set… I just don’t know.
David Cook - Sat numbly watching the slow song, hoped for the best and got the blah with the Switchfoot number (a band and song that was tailor-made for him), and was confused by his weird phrasing on the Aerosmith performance. Why did he change speeds so often? Whatever, he’s making the finals, so it doesn’t matter. He could have blasted a snot rocket onto Ryan’s silk tie and we’d still vote him on. I’m not even offended anymore that he’s been coasting for five weeks. David Cook at rest is still more dynamic than David Archuleta at full lip lick.
It’s not often that a celebrity admits when they’re wrong. Scandals come and go, but count how many times you’ve actually heard Lindsay or Paris admit the wrongness of their actions or words. You can probably count the number on your thumb. And even then, the detraction was more than likely court-ordered.
So color me stunned when famed Dawson Leery sloppy seconds lover, Tom Cruise, went on the Oprah Winfrey show last week and admitted he was “wrong” about his comments on post-partum depression. He apologized for attacking Brooke Shields, and expressed his newfound belief that post partum depression can not be cured simply by taking vitamins (though, he did also claim that an Orange Wilma Flintstone vitamin cured him of “abnormal thoughts” back in 1996, so maybe he hasn’t learned that much). He further explained that he felt “pressed” by the media during his couch-jumping, batshit crazy period, and regrets saying a lot of things on TV.
The newly humble Cruise, fresh off the monumental failure that was Lions For Lambs, still plugging his ongoing sham marriage, and desperate for the love we all once had for the diminutive star, ran down a litany of things he once said or did that he now believes are mistakes. I have collected those comments for your perusal. You can judge just how truly sorry he is for the “mistakes” he once made.
OTHER THINGS TOM CRUISE WAS WRONG ABOUT:
Tom admitted that he was wrong to date Penelope Cruz for two years. Not because they weren’t a happy couple, but because she had only signed a deal to be his beard for 18 months, and the negotiation for the additional six months was pretty onerous. Also, because he could never understand a word she was saying.
Turns out, all the research Tom claimed to have conducted about drug addiction wasn’t actually factual medical information. It was just an early draft of the Requiem for a Dream script that got left on his desk (in his defense, Jared Leto can be quite confusing).
Despite his initial fears, luring, capturing and commanding the mind of a teen soap star was far easier than Tom thought. Dealing with Scarlet Johansson, on the other hand, was just as annoying as predicted. He then wished Ryan Reynolds well in navigating that husky-voiced, square-bodied landmine.
Tom regrets choosing to play a Nazi as his big comeback film; feels it may NOT have been the best vehicle for getting back into the hearts of the American people. In related news, Valkyrie has been delayed a full year while filmmakers try to figure out how to make a Nazi Tom Cruise appealing to anyone beyond the day staff at the Celebrity Center.
Tom has come to realize, after many moments of soul-searching, that association with Ben Stiller in any form might be detrimental to his already damaged public image. Just ask Owen Wilson (too soon?).
Electrocuting the most beloved TV personality in the world? Maybe not his finest hour.
Tom doesn’t view his comments on the infamous Scientology Video as a mistake; he was speaking from the heart, and meant what he said. But looking back, maybe he wouldn’t wear the black turtleneck; that much neck fat should really only be rocked by a Thanksgiving Day turkey, or by John Goodman.
And of course, he regrets hiring a sex doctor to teach him and then wife Nicole Kidman how to have realistic looking straight people sex for his Stanley Kubrick misfire, Eyes Wide Shut. Though the doctor was able to work through Tom’s awkwardness around the naked female form and successfully get the couple to look like they like each other on film, he was not, however, able to achieve Tom’s ultimate goal of the arrangement: convincing Tom that girls don’t have cooties. Sadly, Katie Holmes must now bath in an anti-cootie solution before and after she comes into the bedroom. And by” bedroom”, I of course mean “mind prison”.
So as you can see, Tom showed much contrition about his crazy antics of the last few years. He clarified comments, apologized for weird behavior and even acknowledged the creepiness of Ben Stiller. But the one thing Tom did not do? The one thing Tom will never agree was a mistake? Putting Colonel Jessup on the stand. He wanted answers. And after all, he was entitled to them! The big question is: can he still handle the truth? At least for today, the answer seems to be a resounding “sort of”.
Davids Cook and Archuleta ride the elevator on their way to see Paula Abdul. The idea of learning one’s fate begins to weigh upon David Archuleta with a steadily growing unease.
DAVID ARCHULETA: So is this the same Paula Abdul that made the, uh, prophecy?
DAVID COOK: Yes. She’s very old. And very drunk. She’s been with the show since the beginning.
DAVID ARCHULETA: The beginning?
DAVID COOK: Of the Idol Phenomenon.
DAVID ARCHULETA: And she knows what? Everything?
DAVID COOK: She would say she knows enough. And then she would clap like a seal.
DAVID ARCHULETA: How does she know?
DAVID COOK: She is a true drunk. She sees beyond the relativity of live programming. She sees Jason Castro performances before they happen. For her there is no past, present or future. There is only what is.
DAVID ARCHULETA: And she’s never sober.
DAVID COOK: Don’t think of it in terms of sober and drunk. She is a judge, David Archuleta. She can help you get people to call your phone line.
DAVID ARCHULETA: She helped you?
DAVID COOK: Yes.
DAVID ARCHULETA: What did she tell you?
DAVID COOK: That I would compete against the One in the Season Finale.
CUT TO:
INT. PAULA ABDUL’S APARTMENT
David Archuleta walks down a hall and into what appears to be a family room.
Scattered about the room are a dozen and a half American Idol Season Six rejects.
Some of them are playing, others are deep in meditation. All of them exude a kind of Zen calm that helps block the pain of being untalented.
Blake Lewis holds a picture of Ryan Seacrest which sways like a blade of grass.
David Archuleta crosses to him and sits. Blake smiles and hands David Archuleta the picture of Seacrest which is now perfectly straight.
BLAKE LEWIS: Do not try to bend the Seacrest to make him straight. That is impossible. Instead, only try to realize the truth.
DAVID ARCHULETA: What truth?
BLAKE LEWIS: That there is no Seacrest.
David Archuleta licks his lips, staring at the spoon.
DAVID ARCHULETA: There is no Seacrest.
BLAKE LEWIS: Then you will see that it is not the Seacrest that touches you inappropriately backstage. It is only yourself.
As David Archuleta stares at Seacrest, it slowly begins to bend, becoming less fuax-hawked, more into boobs, until -
A hand touches his shoulder.
RANDOM PRODUCER: Paula Abdul will see you now.
Paula Abdul is huddled beside a freezer, peering inside through the open frig door, chugging Vodka straight from a bottle.
DAVID ARCHULETA: Hello?
PAULA ABDUL: I know. You’re David Archuleta. You’re great, you look like a superstar. I’m so proud of you! (claps like a seal)
DAVID ARCHULETA: You’re Paula Abdul?
PAULA ABDUL: Straight up now tell me… not quite what you were expecting, right? I’d ask you to stop licking your lips, but you’re not going to anyway. And don’t worry about the Grammy award.
DAVID ARCHULETA: What Grammy award?
He turns to look around and his elbow knocks a Grammy Award from the table. It BREAKS against the linoleum floor.
PAULA ABDUL: That Grammy Award.
DAVID ARCHULETA: Oh, um, ah, I’m sorry. Hehehe.
She pulls out a tray of jello shots and turns.
PAULA ABDUL: I said don’t worry about it. I’ll get one of my Idol rejects to win one for me. Maybe Kellie Pickler.
DAVID ARCHULETA: How did you know…?
PAULA ABDUL: What’s really going to bake your noodle later on is, how did a functionally alcoholic former Laker girl with no discernible musical skills record five number one hits?
Smiling, she chugs some pills.
PAULA ABDUL: You’re cuter than I thought. I see why all the teen girls like you.
DAVID ARCHULETA: Who?
PAULA ABDUL: Not too bright though.
She winks.
PAULA ABDUL: You know why David Cook brought you to see me?
He nods. Licks his lips.
PAULA ABDUL: So? What do you think? You think you’re the next American Idol?
DAVID ARCHULETA: Honestly? I don’t know. But if I’m not my fanatical stage father is gonna beat me with his baseball cap. So…
She gestures to a wooden plaque.
PAULA ABDUL: You know what that means? It’s Latin. Means, ‘Klonozopan Thyself’. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Being the American Idol is just like being in love. Nobody can tell you you’re in love. And only prescribed Mexican drugs can make you feel emotions. Well, I better have a look at you. Rush! Rush! Hurry, hurry, David… open your mouth, say “ahh”.
David says “ahh” and it turns into a three minute run. He only forgets the lyrics twice.
PAULA ABDUL: Okay, now I’m supposed to say, ‘Hmmm, that’s interesting but…’ Then you say –
DAVID ARCHULETA: But what?
PAULA ABDUL: But you already know what I’m going to tell you.
DAVID ARCHULETA: I’m not the American Idol. And my personality is a hollow wasteland of nothingness.
PAULA ABDUL: Sorry, kid. You got the gift to sing “Imagine” really well, but it looks like you’re waiting for something.
DAVID ARCHULETA: What?
PAULA ABDUL: Your balls to drop, maybe. Who knows? That’s how these things go on Reality shows.
DAVID ARCHULETA: David Cook… He almost had me convinced.
PAULA ABDUL: I know. Poor David Cook. Without him this season would be a joke. We will never make money unless he signs with our record label.
DAVID ARCHULETA: What do you mean, without him?
Paula Abdul takes a long swig of vodka, regarding David Archuleta with the eyes of a crazy drunk lady.
PAULA ABDUL: Are you sure you want to hear this?
David Archuleta nods. Smiles like an idiot.
PAULA ABDUL: David Cook believes he is better than you, David Archuleta, and no one, not you, Randy, Carly or even me can convince him otherwise. But he believes his career will be hindered if he wins. He believes the Daughtry route is better. He believes it so blindly that he’s going to sing his finale performance off-key to save your inevitably one-note finale performance.
DAVID ARCHULETA: What?
PAULA ABDUL: You’re going to have to make a choice. In one hand, you will have David Cooks’ musical career. In the other hand, you will have your own. One of you is going to win American Idol. Which one, will be up to you.
David Archuleta can’t breathe. Still manages to lick his lips.
PAULA ABDUL: I’m sorry, kiddo. I really am. You have a good soul and a sketchy falsetto and I hate giving good people bad news. But don’t worry, as soon as you walk outside that door, you’ll start feeling better. You’ll remember that you don’t believe any of this “the viewer’s affect the results” crap. 19 Entertainment is in control of your own life, remember?
He licks his lips.
PAULA ABDUL: Here, take a jello shot. I promise by the time you’re done chugging it, you’ll feel right as rain. Like Brooke White watching a Disney movie.
David Archuleta eats the jello shot, the tightness in his chest slowly beginning to fade.
I could not have been more bored by last night’s episode. I wrote a positive piece on Sarah Jessica Parker (!) instead of giving Idol my full attention. And without even looking at the screen the entire time, I was STILL rolling my eyes from the massive gratuitousness of the whole affair. 
David Archuleta - All the things that come to mind when Archuleta sings: Snore. Bore. Blah. Consistent. Hollow. Yawn. What dash ever. Who effing cares? Fine, I guess. Really, another ballad? Oop, lost the words again. Deedle do, deedle dee. Suck it, fanatical Papa Archuleta. Inevitability. Predictability. Ringer. Lost. Precocious. Sincerity. Psychotherapy. Again? Imagine. Blink. Lick. Blink. Lick. Poor Syesha.
DOUBLE BLOOP
Syesha Mercado - Did herself no favors singing Fever, only served to confuse the white people with that Rihanna number and did an admirable, but too reminiscent of earlier this season Syesha version of Alicia Keys. Despite coming on supes strong these last few weeks, just couldn’t seem to clear the Karaoke hurdle. She became a great performer, dressed like a superstar and presented a sweet, intoxicating personality (sans baby voice and attention-grabbing personal melodrama), but still sounds like an above average R&B jukebox. She can play the hits, but she can’t generate one on her own. I truly thought she could beat Archuleta, but with that set… I just don’t know. 
David Cook - Sat numbly watching the slow song, hoped for the best and got the blah with the Switchfoot number (a band and song that was tailor-made for him), and was confused by his weird phrasing on the Aerosmith performance. Why did he change speeds so often? Whatever, he’s making the finals, so it doesn’t matter. He could have blasted a snot rocket onto Ryan’s silk tie and we’d still vote him on. I’m not even offended anymore that he’s been coasting for five weeks. David Cook at rest is still more dynamic than David Archuleta at full lip lick.
FREEZE!!!
Why? Did I do something wrong?
It’s not often that a celebrity admits when they’re wrong. Scandals come and go, but count how many times you’ve actually heard Lindsay or Paris admit the wrongness of their actions or words. You can probably count the number on your thumb. And even then, the detraction was more than likely court-ordered. 
